Pyre: The ultimate high

Part I

He nods to himself before dumping the baggie's contents on the desk. But the small pile of powder isn't white. It's grey, like dirty snow.

"What's that?"

Trevor takes a gold credit card from his wallet, his hand trembling as he cuts the powder into two lines. That shit, whatever it is, has him by the balls.

Sighing, he bends and snorts the first line. The cords of his neck push out against the white collar of his shirt. The skin between his ear and the edge of his rusty hair shimmers with sweat. His fist clenches, then releases. He raises his head. His pupils are huge under the fluorescent lights as he blinks once, twice. His eyes fasten on me like steel rivets. I feel like he's absorbing absolutely everything there is to know about me. I want to look away, but I can't. My lips and throat feel dry, my skin hot and tight. He's giving me this total shit-eating grin like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. And just as my discomfort threatens to crest, he cuts the remaining line of powder in half.

Without thinking, I bend and snort my share, ignoring Nancy's disapproving hiss as the weird blow hits my system like a freight train. Every colour in the room snaps to attention. The world is suddenly so sharp my eyes ache. My nose burns and I scrunch up my face. The sensation passes and the smell of sweat floods my nose, followed by the metallic stink of blood. A millisecond later, I can taste 20 different types of perfume and aftershave lingering in the portable's humid air. There's another smell, too, sharp and delicious — Nancy's fear. Her heart is beating like a castanet, but it isn't half as fast as mine. My muscles quiver with readiness, yet I feel this dreamy sense of calm that tells me I can do anything.

Like launch a teacher through a blackboard.

"Holy shit." Jake's whisper is thunderous. Powder rims the edge of his nostril. I wipe it away, staring at the silvery grains clinging to my fingertip.

I look up at Trevor. "Seriously, what is this?"

Grinning, he darts out the door into the hot September sunshine. Giddy, we follow him, ignoring Nancy's dim protests.

Outside, my feet move so fast I trip over them. For once in my life, running is effortless despite the light that stabs my eyes, making them water as Trevor sprints across the grass to the students' parking lot. Most jocks look ridiculous when they run, their oversized pecs bouncing like man boobs under their jerseys. Not Trevor. He seems to float over the crushed pop cans and dirty leaves. Watching him run makes me think of the deer that live in the forest behind the house I grew up in. His ass looks fantastic and my palms go clammy as Jake and I race behind him.

He stops outside a black Tercel with tinted windows. I sit up front. Trevor pulls on a pair of sunglasses and takes off before Jake's got the backseat door closed. Shit car, but you'd think he was driving a Porshe the way he weaves through the traffic. It's full of his scent — sweat and the usual musky jock crap, but with this undercurrent smoky smell, like a bonfire designed by Calvin Klein.

I am so going to fuck him.

I put my hand in his lap. A smile slits his mouth. He takes his hand off the wheel long enough to drop it to the inside of my left thigh. His fingers are icicles against my skin, but leave fiery trails as they creep under the edge of my kilt. I shiver. Saliva prickles the inside of my mouth. In the backseat, Jake takes out his sketchbook and politely starts babbling about how the trees arching over the street are flowing past us like water. Or some shit like that.

He's such a prince.

I take off my seat belt and lean into Trevor's shoulder, raising my chin to nuzzle his earlobe. His jaw smells of aftershave. Stubble scrapes my cheek as his lifts a hand from the stick to graze my breast. "Where're we going?"

"Somewhere private."

He takes out the phone and has me look up an address while he gets on the highway. He pushes the Tercel's crappy engine over 140 as we race for downtown. By the time we drive into the parking garage for one of those massive condo towers by the lake, my blood is thundering in my ears and my thong is damp.

Trevor gets out and immediately makes for the elevator. My head swims as I stand up. The garage reeks of gasoline and recycled air; the lights dazzle my eyes until they water again. I put one hand on the Tercel's roof, steadying myself as I wipe my tears away. Jake, pinching the bridge of his nose, gets out of the car and drops his sketchbook. I pick it up and sling an arm across his shoulders. He bumps my hip as we head for the elevator.

Inside, Trevor takes another plastic card from his wallet. This one is black and grey with a geometric design. I don't see any words or numbers. He holds it against a dark grey plastic panel below the elevator's numbered buttons. There's a pinging noise followed by the click-hum-click-hum of whirring gears as the elevator starts to climb.

Sunlight strikes like daggers against our faces, piercing the elevator's glass walls as we clear the underground garage. Jake and I wipe more tears off our cheeks. Trevor, smirking behind his glasses, snakes an arm around my waist, but doesn't stop watching the numbers climb. His Adam's apple bobs twice against the top of my head. He shifts as the elevator slows, reaching his other hand behind his back for something I can't see. Christ, is he packing? I twist my head, but he holds me tightly against his chest.

The elevator pings. Trevor silently raises a hand as the doors open on the penthouse. He slides past us into a gleaming expanse of glass, stainless steel, and pale wood. No matter how I crane my neck, I can't see what he's carrying. After a long moment, he beckons us to follow. Jake walks toward the windows on the far wall, exclaiming about the view. I go to look, but Trevor reaches for my hand, stroking the base of my thumb with his forefinger. Electric current jolts up my spine.

I barely glance around as Trevor leads me to a bedroom the size of my mom's apartment. I spot a bronze statue of some naked chick in the corner opposite the bed before Trevor kicks the door shut. Then there's nothing but his skin under my hands and a hot tide of need in my throat.